An Inconvenient Affair

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Men wore tuxedos or military uniforms, the women were in long dresses and dripping jewels that would have funded endless numbers of scholarships. Well, everyone wore formal attire except for the gentleman in a gray suit with a red tie. Her contact.

Colonel Salvatore.

She’d been introduced to him by her lawyer. Apparently, the colonel worked for international authorities. The CIA had promised he would ensure her safety and oversee her cooperation while she was in Chicago. Only one more weekend and she could put this all behind her.

The colonel stepped up beside her and offered his arm. “Miss Wright, you’re here early. I would have escorted you down if I’d known you were ready.”

“I couldn’t wait any longer to get this evening under way.” She tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. “I hope you understand.”

“Of course.” He started into the ballroom, moving toward the seating section with a runway thrust into the middle.

She recalled there being some mention of an auction of items donated by the elite from around the globe.

More money laundering? Couldn’t anyone or anything be genuine anymore? Was everything tainted with greed and agendas?

Salvatore gestured her toward a seat reserved with his name and “guest”. They took their places five rows back, not conspicuously in the front. She was also in the perfect spot to see both of the screens panning shots of the guests while a matriarch of Chicago high society took the stage to emcee the auction. Of course Colonel Salvatore had planned everything.

Hillary forced herself to focus on studying each face on the screen, on searching for the two familiar individuals who Barry had claimed were his “silent partners”—not that Barry was talking to authorities now that he’d lawyered up.

But then when had she ever been able to count on a man? Her father certainly hadn’t done anything to stop her mother from drinking or to protect Hillary and her sister. He’d buried himself in working in the fields, and as long as she worked alongside him, she was safe.

The hard work of her childhood had taught her to work hard as an adult. Life was just hard. Plain and simple. She was still trying to keep herself safe so her efforts could finally pay off.

As bid after bid went by for posh vacations, jewelry and even private concerts, her thoughts raced back to Troy Donavan and that hour of lighthearted banter on the plane. For a short snap, life had felt fun and uncomplicated.

Yet, it had all been a lie. She couldn’t have bantered with a more complicated person. Troy was a perfect example of the cold, hard truth. Everyone wanted something from someone else. People didn’t do things exclusively out of the goodness of their hearts. There was always a payoff of some sort expected. The sooner she accepted that and quit believing otherwise, the happier she would be.

Madame Emcee moved closer to the microphone, her gold taffeta dress smooshed against the podium. “And now, before we move on to dancing the night away, we have one final auction left for the evening, one not on your programs.” She swept a bejeweled hand toward the large flat screens. “If you’ll turn your attention to our video feed, you’ll see media footage you may have caught earlier.”

Troy Donavan’s face filled the screen.

Oh. God.

Hillary clenched her hands around her handbag, the silver charm cutting into her palm. She glanced quickly at the colonel to see if he’d noticed her panic. But her escort simply sat with his arms folded, watching along with everyone else.

In full color, high-definition, the whole runway scenario played out again in front of her. Troy, walking off the plane in handcuffs, wearing that quirky, undeniably sexy hat. Troy, escorted into some official-looking SUV. Hillary had been so rushed getting checked in and ready for the kickoff gala, she hadn’t even turned on the television in her room.

Madame Emcee continued, “But what does that have to do with us tonight? Prepare yourself.”

The lights shut off. The ballroom went pitch-black. Gasps rippled. A woman squeaked.

After a squeal of microphone feedback, the emcee continued, “For our final bid of the night, we have for you …”

A spotlight illuminated a circle on stage.

Troy Donavan stood in the middle, wearing a tuxedo now instead of his suit, but still cuffed with his hands in front of him. A white silk scarf gave him the same quirky air he’d had on the plane. Her eyes took in the whole man. How could she not? He’d been hot in a suit—in a tuxedo, he stole the air from the room.

“Yes,” Madame continued, her fat diamond earrings sparkling disco ball refractions all around her face. “Troy Donavan has offered himself as a date for the weekend. But first, someone must ‘bid’ him out of our custody in an auction. He’s been a bad, bad boy, ladies. You’ll want to handle with caution and by no means, let this computer whiz get his hands on your software.”

Laughter echoed up into the rafters from everyone—except Hillary. She sat stunned; her hands gripped the sides of her seat so tightly her fingers went numb. The whole arrest had been a gag, a publicity stunt for this party. She’d spent the entire afternoon thinking of him in a jail cell—and yes, sad over that in spite of her anger.

Now she was just mad. He had to have known what she thought in those last minutes on the airplane and he’d said nothing to reassure her. He didn’t even bother to lean down and whisper “Sorry” in her ear.

She should be relieved he wasn’t in trouble, and she was. But she couldn’t forget. He was still the Robin Hood Hacker.

Still playing games.

The bidding began—and of course it soared. Half the women and a couple of men were falling all over themselves to win a weekend with him. The war continued, shouts growing louder and escalating to over seventy thousand dollars. The ruckus continued until just three bidders remained.

Winning at the moment was a woman wearing skintight silver and chunky sapphires, with a sheen of plastic surgery to her stretched skin.

Not far behind, a college-aged student who’d begged Daddy for more money twice already.

And coolly chiming in occasionally, a sedate woman in a simple black sheath.

College girl dropped out after her daddy shook his head at the auctioneer and drew his hand across his throat in the universal “cut off” signal. Still the bidding rose another ten thousand dollars, money that would go to underprivileged schoolkids who needed scholarships. This was all in fun, right?

Yet, the way these people tossed around money in games left her … unsettled. Why not just write a check, plus cancel the event and donate that amount, too? Of course if they did that, she would be out of a job.

Who was she to stand in judgment of others? Of Troy?

As much as she wanted to look away from his cocky smile, which had so charmed her earlier, she couldn’t. The way she stayed glued to the bidding upset her. A lot.

She found herself rooting for the one less likely to entice him. Not that she really knew anything about him. But a part of her sensed—or hoped—Ms. Plastic Surgery with her wedding ring wouldn’t be at all alluring to Troy. And if she was, then how much easier it would be to wipe him from her mind.

But the sedate woman in the black dress? She could have been Hillary’s cousin. And that gave her pause. If that woman won and if she was his type, then that meant he could have been genuine on the airplane when he flirted….

As fast as “going, going, gone” echoed through the room, Ms. Sedate had a date with Troy Donavan for the weekend, won by an eighty-nine-thousand-dollar bid. And gauging from his huge “cat ate the canary smile” he was happy with the results.

The depth of Hillary’s disappointment was ridiculous, damn it. She’d spoken to the guy for all of an hour on a flight. Yes, she’d been inordinately attracted to him—felt a zap of chemistry she hadn’t felt before—but she could chalk that up to her vulnerable state right now. She was raw, with her emotions tender and close to the surface. After this ordeal with Barry was over, she would get stronger.

The emcee moved closer to Troy in a loud crackle of gold taffeta, which carried through the microphone. She keyed open the cuffs and he tucked them into his tuxedo pocket. He kissed her hand before taking the mic from her.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said in that same carefree voice that had so enticed Hillary earlier as he’d calmed her nerves on the plane, “I’m pleased to be a part of such a generous outpouring tonight—all in the Robin Hood spirit and not a single computer hacked.”

There was no denying it. The crowd loved him. They all but ate up his irreverence and charm. All except Colonel Salvatore. He seemed—skeptical.

“As you’re all aware, I’m not known for playing by the rules. And tonight’s no different.” He motioned to the reserved woman who’d won the bidding battle. “My assistant here has been placing bids for me so I’ll have the opportunity to pick the lady of my choice for the weekend.”

Gasps, whispers and a couple of disgruntled murmurs chased through the partiers.

“I know—” Troy shrugged “—not completely fair, but I can’t be accused of driving someone else to pay more since I took the burden of the highest bid upon myself.”

Madame Emcee leaned in to the mic. “And it is a quite generous donation, may I add.” She nodded to Troy. “But please, continue.”

“Since we’re all here in support of a worthy cause, I hope my request will be honored by the woman I choose. After all, it would be a double standard if this bachelor auction didn’t work both ways.”

His cocky logic took root and cheers bounced from person to person like beach balls at a raucous Jimmy Buffett concert. Troy started down the steps with a lazy long-legged lope, microphone in hand. The men and women around Hillary whooped and shouted louder while Troy continued to speak into the mic. He paused at the first row, then moved on to the second and the third, playing the crowd like a fiddle as each woman wondered if she would be chosen. The spotlight followed him farther still, showcasing every angle of a face too handsome to belong to someone who couldn’t be trusted to use that charm wisely.

Abruptly, he stopped.

Troy stood at the end of row five. Her row. He stood beside Colonel Salvatore. The older gentleman—her contact—scowled at Troy.

And why not? He was making it difficult for her to stay low profile this weekend, which was what she’d been instructed to do. But then he couldn’t possibly know how much trouble he could cause just by bringing the spotlight to this row.

Troy extended his hand and looked Hillary straight in the eyes. “I choose you.”

Three

Her stomach fell as quickly as her anger rose, which was mighty darn hard and fast. What game was he playing now? She had no clue.

She did know that every single pair of eyes in this room was glued to her. She looked farther—and crap—her horrified face was plastered right there in full color on the wide screens.

Undaunted, Troy dropped to one knee.

Damn his theatrical soul.

“Hillary—” his voice boomed through the speakers “—think of the children and their scholarships. Be my date for the weekend.”

She wanted to shove him on his arrogant ass.

Troy shifted his attention to the colonel. “I assume you won’t mind me stealing your date?”

The colonel cleared his throat and said, “She’s my niece. I trust you’ll treat her well.”

Niece? Whatever. Sheesh. This was nuts.

A steadying hand palmed her back. Salvatore. Her skin turned fiery with embarrassment. She turned to him for help.

Salvatore smiled one of those grins that didn’t come close to reaching his pale blue eyes. “You should dance, Hillary.”

Right. She should get her feet moving and then people would stop staring at her. Determined to feel nothing, she put her hand in Troy’s—and still her stomach did a flip. She was not sixteen, for crying out loud. Although his grip felt so warm—callused and tender at the same time. Her body freakin’ tingled to life. She’d always prided herself on being in control of her emotions. The second she’d found out what an immoral creep Barry was, she’d felt nothing but repulsion at his touch.

She knew Troy was a liar, a crook and a playboy. Still her body sang at the notion of stepping into his arms and gliding across the dance floor.

Plus, he’d just bid nearly ninety thousand dollars to spend the weekend with her. Gulp.

The pianist began playing. A singer in a red dress cupped the microphone and launched into a sultry rendition of a 1940s love song.

Troy tucked her to his side and led her to the center of the empty dance floor. The spotlight warmed her already-heating cheeks. His silk scarf teased her hand as he held it against his chest and swept her into the glide of the music. She should have known he would be a smooth dancer.

She blurted out, “Is there anything you don’t do well?”

“I take it that’s not a compliment.”

“I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m here to work this weekend, not play games.”

“Believe me, this is no game.” He pulled her close.

She inhaled sharply at the press of his muscled body against hers. He wasn’t some soft desk jockey. He was a toned, honed man. Her mouth dried and her pulse sped up.

“Just relax and dance.” His warm breath caressed her ear. “And I promise not to sing along. Because, in answer to your question, I’m tone-deaf.”

“Thanks for sharing. But it’s not helping. You can’t truly expect me to relax,” she hissed, even as her feet synced perfectly with his. His strong legs brushed ever so subtly against hers with each dance step. “You just told a roomful of people and a pack of reporters that you paid nearly ninety-thousand dollars to spend the weekend with me. Me. A woman you’ve known for less than a day. We’ve only spoken for an hour.”

He guided her around the floor as other couples joined in. The shifting mass of other bodies created a sense of privacy now that all eyes weren’t so fiercely focused on them.

“Well, Troy?” she pressed. “What are you hoping to accomplish?”

“Don’t you believe in love at first sight?” He nuzzled her hair, inhaling deeply.

She stumbled, bumped into another couple, then righted her steps, if not her racing pulse. “No, I do not. I believe in lust at first sight, but not love. Don’t confuse the two.”

All the same, she couldn’t help but draw in another whiff of his bay rum scent now that she was as close to him as she’d ever been. Swaying, she resisted the urge to press her cheek to his and savor the bristle of late-day stubble. The kind of slightly unshaven look that wasn’t scruffy, but shouted testosterone to a woman’s basic instincts.

But the music slowed and she rested her cheek against his chest, just over the silken scarf for a moment.

“Hmm.” His chest rumbled with approval. “So you admit you’re attracted to me.”

Of course she was. That didn’t mean she intended to tell him. “Correction—I was stating that you are simply attracted to me.”

He laughed softly, spanning her waist with a bold, broad palm. “Your confidence is compelling.”

“Not confidence, exactly.” She leaned back to study his eyes. “Why else would you have gone to all this outrageous trouble to spend time with me? Although I guess you’re so wealthy that perhaps the obscene amount of money doesn’t mean anything to you.”